


Record-Keeping

by ceiland



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceiland/pseuds/ceiland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sole Survivor finds an old record player and fixes it up, putting it to good use.</p><p>No name used for the Sole Survivor, just pronouns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Record-Keeping

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make the Sole Survivor as neutral as possible so y'all could see your own guys in there and whatnot, but of course some details from my own might have slipped in there. Oh well.
> 
> Unlike my last fic, this was not a kinkmeme prompt and therefore I have no excuse.

He’d found the old record player in a house some ways out of town, pieces all there but not exactly in working order. Fixing it up had been an impulse—initially he’d brought it back for scrap, but when he’d finally sat down to take it apart… well, it’s funny, the way sentimentality works. Something about the idea had started feeling _wrong_. There’s not a lot of nice things around any more. Far be it from him to miss the chance to catch one when he can. 

“Just about done,” he says to himself, pushing up his glasses. The record player’s propped up on his knee, and he holds it by one corner. Makes sure the casing is back in place before setting it upright on the coffee table. Going through the neighbor’s houses in Sanctuary Hills had felt like a sin, but, well, he doubts the dead care very much about what he does with their stuff. After scouring one or two houses, he’d found a couple records that seemed mostly intact. He’s got them laid out across the coffee table now, still in their sleeves. Time to test this thing out. His hand brushes over one before settling on another. The first one—no. No. It’s an old favorite, sure, but that’s the problem. Him and Nora—

—that’s a thought to be dealt with at a time that is not now. He picks up the second record and sets it up in the player. Scratchy for a moment, before it gets itself together. It plays smoother than he expected. Not exactly fantastic quality, but pretty good for two hundred-some years old. Despite everything, he finds himself idly drumming his fingers to the music. Gets lost enough that the door opening catches him off guard, starting in his seat. 

“Sorry if I startled you,” Preston says, staying in the doorway. Chill night breeze drifts in from the open door. “Figured that wasn’t the radio. They only ever play the same couple dozen songs. You finally got that old thing working, huh?” 

He nods, nerves settling down. “I’d half-expected it to have been blasted into uselessness by the initial EMP of the bombs, but this one’s not electronic. Some of the insides were rusted to hell and back, but I gutted those and shoved in some replacements. The records are courtesy of my old neighbors.” He turns the volume dial down a bit, proper conversation volume. 

“Never was so good with this old tech. It’s nice to have something like that around, though. I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” Preston steps over and takes a seat beside him on the battered old sofa. Slides over until their shoulders are brushing. “Huh. You cleaned the rust off the outside of it, too. Looks brand new.” He himself would call it a bit of a distance from new—okay, maybe more than a bit—but he knows, generally, when to take a compliment. “Baking soda and water will wash maybe fifty or so of those two hundred years off. Sandpapered the wood bits, too.” 

A pause in the music before it moves on to another song. They take a little while to sit just like that, appreciate the moment. The novelty of it. It’s good to have something of his life back—how odd, that these things are so rare now. Simple pleasures taken for granted back in his day. Taken for granted—it’s not as if any of them could have predicted _this_. But maybe slowing down to appreciate things a bit more would have been nice. Preston leans against him, a warm weight at his shoulder.

“Y’know,” Preston starts quietly. “Set up like this in here? I can kind of picture what things might’ve looked like before the War. Families settled down for the evening, gathered around one of these things. Not having to worry in every direction about whether or not you’re safe.” Through memory more than description, he starts to picture it too. Maybe people were still just as inclined to doing things by themselves as they are now, but it’s mostly accurate. If he keeps on the memory train, though, eventually it’s gonna derail. And even then, sometimes it’s the nice memories that are the ones that run you down. An idea—impulse makes him act on it. He stands up, holds his hand out in invitation. 

“May I have this dance?” Silly, maybe, but right now? He can’t say he cares very much about looking silly. The music’s picked up now, ups and downs, the most emphatic part of this particular number. Preston looks him over before taking his hand—hesitantly? “They don’t offer dance classes in the post-apocalypse, man. Frankly, I’m not sure how.” Now there’s a challenge. He _does_ know how, might even say he’s pretty good at it, but teaching it? That’s something else. 

“I’ll show you, then,” he says, pulling Preston up off the sofa. Stepping into position, letting his other hand fall to Preston’s waist. “It’s not so very hard. Move with me.” He shows the steps, slowed down, winding in careful circles around what was once the living room. Moving in time with the song, swaying as the melody sways, going a bit faster or a bit slower as the song goes.

There’s a few mistakes on both their parts, stumbles or toes stepped on—Preston’s new to this and he’s out of practice—but they get the hang of it eventually. It’s easy to let the world fade out of focus like this. This close to Preston, seeing the way he’s smiling now, feeling the warmth radiating off of him. His mind doesn’t trail off the way it tends to do, to less happy things. Instead he’s focused on the here and now—the next step, the flow of the song, the placement of his hands. They’re close enough that it’s not hard to press a careful kiss to his cheek. After a while Preston catches the melody, starting to hum along barely audibly.

And then the record stops. Skips a few times, repeating one syllable of the vocals over and over again, but ultimately stops. He stops, frowning. “Damn it. I suppose after two hundred years it was inevitable.” Preston furrows his brow. “Is it broken?” “Maybe. Wouldn’t be surprised.” He breaks away to fiddle with the needle a couple times before giving up and turning it over to the other side. It goes up again, playing just as well as before. At least it’s not a problem with the player itself. He smiles, returning to his previous position and taking Preston’s hand again. “Shall we continue?” 

It’s a lovely way to wind the evening away. 

**Author's Note:**

> would you believe i actually researched things for this? i had to double check and make sure record players wouldn't be affected by emps. i've never used a record player or formally danced in my life, so if there are any inaccuracies thataways it's wholly my fault. baking soda and water will clean rust off, though, don't say i never did nothing for you.


End file.
